


Backburner

by somegunemojis



Series: Tender Mercies [30]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Breakfast, Dancing, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:15:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somegunemojis/pseuds/somegunemojis
Summary: Anyone can dance if they're not a coward.
Relationships: Bettino Tahan/Ihab Rahal
Series: Tender Mercies [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893175





	Backburner

April, 2019 -- VR, Italia.

It’s 10:30 in the morning on a Tuesday. He’s been awake for five hours. Worked out, went for a run, put on the coffee. Crawled back into bed with Ihab Fucking Rahal. Coaxed him out of that bed with an orgasm and the promise of caffeine. It’s becoming a routine, unfortunately-- he wonders if Ihab will actually stab him when he realizes, if he’ll pitch a fit and try to flay him alive, if it will make him leave for good.

He gets bored, waiting-- but Ihab gets homicidal if he wakes up before 10, and prefers to sleep until noon. 10:30, a blowjob, and coffee is his best attempt at a compromise. Ihab complains under his breath sometimes, but here he sits at the kitchen table, sniping at Bettino as he tries to make eggs, as if he knows how to cook any better. The steam from their mugs curls in the air over the table. Ihab has his chin in his hand, eyes half lidded as he watches him at the stove, still mostly asleep. Bettino turns the omelette into an egg scramble by accident. 

He doesn’t care. He’s positively giddy. He doesn’t know why-- Ihab had snored last night. He’d carded his fingers through his hair and pulled hard enough that Bettino’s scalp still aches when he had gone to work on him this morning. When he’d crawled out of bed and stumbled around looking for his pants, he’d asked what Bettino was making for breakfast, like he just assumed he was entitled to it. 

The trust it takes to sleep so deeply -- the careful affection edged with just the right amount of pain -- the reminder -- familiar enough with the routine that he already knows Bettino’s going to try to cook. 

Infuriating man. 

Turning from the food still cooking on the stove top, he rounds the table, rolling his shoulders absently. Ihab’s eyes, cornflower blue in the warm morning light, track him lazily on his approach. As he steps closer, Ihab draws away from his slouch and settles back in the chair, his thighs falling lazily open. A smirk settles on his face as Bettino comes to stand between them, their knees brushing. Bettino settles a hand on the nape of his neck, and Ihab tips his head until the back of his skull is resting against his fingers, like he’s expecting a kiss. Smug. Bettino settles his other hand on his jaw and trails his thumb over his lower lip. Ihab’s eyelashes flutter at the careful touch. He doesn’t push his lip into his teeth for the cut of it, instead drawing him forward to his feet, dropping his hand to take a hold of Ihab’s. 

“I had a dream last night.” 

Ihab’s eyebrows shoot up on his forehead, opens his mouth to make some smartass comment, so he drags him down into a long kiss, and bites him. Ihab hisses, Bettino laughs, and pulls him closer. “I had a dream we were dancing.” He steps to the side, dragging Ihab with him. He nearly falls. 

“I don’t dance.” Ihab snaps back, his brows furrowed as he stares at their feet. 

Bettino knows he means he doesn’t know how. A smile tugs at the corner of his lip, but he bites it back, taking smaller, easier to follow steps. More of a shuffle than anything. “We’ll learn together.” 

Ihab’s eye roll has turned into something legendary, after spending so much time with him. He’s keeping a careful eye on him now, watching him and mimicking every move almost as soon as he makes them. His voice cracks out of him like a whip. “We don’t have any music, Tahan.”

A well of fondness bubbles up in him, pushing a laugh out before he can bite it back. He spins them, and Ihab nearly falls over his feet, sliding around on the linoleum in his socks. Poor kid has no rhythm. “I can sing. Do you want me to sing?” 

“Can you sing? I seriously doubt it, lover; you can barely speak on the best of days.” He’s getting the hang of the basic steps, now, so Bettino changes it up on him again and draws them into a basic waltz, humming tunelessly. 

“Well, I can sing better than you can dance. You’re stiffer than a corpse, _vita mia_.” Battista slides a hand up his spine, feels every shifting vertebrae and the tension rolling within him. “We dance every time we throw a punch. This isn’t so different, you just have to pay attention.”

“I’m about to start throwing punches.” He’s getting the hang of the waltz, now, so Bettino switches it again with a laugh, leading him around the cramped kitchen. “Your eggs are burning, idiot.” 

He laughs, long and loud. “Fuck the eggs.”


End file.
